The Dead Man is Gone
by paranoia.pink
Summary: Harry Potter's story if his uncle had died when he was little, told through the eyes of unusual characters. AU.
1. Chapter 1: Petunia

**Title: **The Dead Man is Gone

**Author:** pinkparanoia

**Summary:** Vernon dies before Harry leaves for Hogwarts, and things change.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry, don't own his world, and don't own anything else, either. Unfortunately.

**Chapter 1: Love Never Dies**

Petunia came awake with a jerk. It took her a minute to identify the soft whimpers that had woken her up, because they weren't coming from Dudley's crib at the foot of the bed, they were coming from Harry's crib over by the open window. The curtains shifted a little in the wind, and suddenly she realized it was raining, and the drumming sound in the background was the rain falling on the roof and going down the gutters. In his sleep, Vernon snorted and rolled over. When he moved, she could see his stomach jiggle a little through the sheets. We're getting older, she thought absently. The baby was still crying, shifting restlessly in its crib. Stupid child. He was going to wake Dudley if he kept this up.

Petunia sat there, looking at the blue sheets on their bed, speckled with patches of white streetlight filtered through the trees. The breeze smelled like rain, a smell which usually refreshed her, pushed her into action. It was too late, though, and she was too tired. She didn't want to get up, wouldn't get up. But with the rain she couldn't fall asleep. Dratted rain.

Her fingers toyed with the sheets draped over her legs, stretching the fabric over her thighs as tight as it could, until her fat bulged out from the pressure. She scratched at her face absently, cursing under her breath when she hit the cat-scratches from earlier today. Figg's cats were all horribly annoying and vicious. She waited, listening, but Harry still hadn't started crying, just kept whimpering softly. She played with her hair, clacked her teeth, watched the walls flare up with color then die back down as a car went by, its brights on in the rain. She inspected her nails carefully, checking for chips in the polish. Dudley still didn't wake, didn't need coddling. Petunia didn't have any excuse to put this off any longer. She carefully pushed the blankets aside so as to not wake Vernon, and went over to Harry's crib.

Lily's eyes looked back up at her.

Petunia had been born with watery blue eyes, the kind that were a little red around the rims, so it had always looked like she was about to cry. When combined with her mousy brown hair, before she had started dying it blond, the effect was underwhelming. Petunia had always felt distinctly uninteresting, especially compared to her older sister. Lily's eyes had always been electrifying, the kind of emerald that could usually only come from colored contacts. Hehad the same eyes, too bright to be real.

Lily had always drawn well, even when they were young girls. She had won school awards for her picture of their dog sleeping. That was what Lily drew mostly, dogs, cats, and wild animals, unicorns and dragons. She always had been fond of odd, imaginary things. The week before Lily left for school, she and Petunia spent almost every day together. On the last day, Lily had drawn a picture of them sitting on the front steps. Lily had been very kind to Petunia in that picture, and in it they looked almost exactly alike, knees bumping and smiling. Petunia hadn't thought of it for years, but the first year Lily was gone it had hung on Petunia's wall right above the dresser where she could see it every day. As Petunia had gotten older, and her big sister older too, the picture faded into the background, an image of two people that no longer existed.

Petunia breathed in shakily. She didn't know where the picture was. Was the picture still safe, hidden in the attic somewhere? She didn't know what had happened to the drawing, and somehow that was very important to her. Lily and she had never looked like sisters at any other time. Harry and Dudley would never look anything alike. Both boys looked like their fathers anyway. Where was it? Maybe Lily had had it hidden away somewhere in her old house.

Petunia had heard about the house that had exploded due to a "gas fire" the night after Harry had appeared, and she had wondered. And the picture wasn't here. She had treasured it, made for her by Lily to keep her from being lonely. Petunia remembered Lily reaching down to pick her up when she had fallen off her bike. They had read fairy tales together before bedtime. The house had seemed so empty with Lily gone; Petunia had been so left-behind and deserted.

Petunia stifled a sob (mustn't wake Vernon or Dudley, though they both slept like the dead, nothing would wake them up) and hurriedly wiped at her face, trying to get all the tears off, but she couldn't. Her face, on her cheeks, all over them, it was water. The rain was coming through the open window, and the blanket was soaked. The baby was crying, waving its arms at her in distress. It might have been crying for minutes and Petunia couldn't tell. She just didn't know how long she had let Harry sit there, wet and cold and alone. He was so tiny, so much smaller than Dudley.

Petunia pulled the window closed and picked Harry up, bouncing him up and down. Together they went to get a dry blanket, Harry's sobs fading into whimpers before finally dying down altogether. He looked up at Petunia through half-closed eyes, looking content, for now at least. Petunia carried Harry to the window and watched the rain spatter against and slide down the glass until he was completely asleep.


	2. Chapter 2: Sirius

**Chapter 2 - Dead Man Walking**

_Dead man walking! _Padfoot went over to the door, gulping down the food lying on the floor. The food tasted clean for a minute, sweet and succulent, before it lost all its flavor and sat in his mouth, rubbery and dead. One of the evil things passed by him, probably a long distance away, since he wasn't howling and could think. Padfoot wanted to bite it, but the part of him that was not dog thought this would be a very bad idea.

How long had he paced here? The sound of his nails clicking across the floor was so familiar. To Padfoot it felt like a long time. He wondered if he would age as a dog or a man. Seven years was one human year, so would he die earlier than normal?

_He was a dead man walking, real smooth talkin, a blade blunted down to the bone. _The song keeps playing over and over in his head. He doesn't think he made it up.

These are the things Sirius can't think about anymore...

* * *

When he first arrived, Sirius realized that it wasn't like he had thought, back when he had laughed viciously at all the Death Eaters being imprisoned for their crimes and their malice. But no one deserved this. He spent the first day huddled in the corner, trying to avoid the Dementors as much as possible. He curled up, nose pressed against his knees, desperately trying to avoid looking around. Damn him! The stupid rat betrayed them all! Bastard! Sirius wanted to smash things, but it was so hard to move. Oh James. Lily. Even as he thought about them, overwhelming horror threatened to smash him down. They were dead. When he tried to focus on the happier memories, they started to flatten and drain, slipping away from him. After that, he tried to stay away from his good memories as much as possible, preserving them for after his escape. Someday was a word that he held on to before that too slipped away from him.

Anger was easier, so he clenched onto it, feeding his anger and outrage at the Ministry, Voldemort, and the rat. Peter. And no wonder he had that form! The four of them had joked about it school, saying it only meant he was useful and able to go where others couldn't. What rot. But even as he thought the anger, it seeped out, only leaving gray and listlessness. He didn't have the energy to be angry, even at Voldemort. Everything was going flat and bleached.

This wasn't working. Sirius looked at the floor, at the stone blocks held together by magic. They were hungry for him, the stones were. The entire place was a strange combination of clean and clinical hospital and Slytherin dungeon. It was the kind of place you would call a facility, but wouldn't show to anyone out of fear they'd shut it down for rights violations.

There had to be a way to survive, to stay sane here. Sirius had been imprisoned in a farce of a trial, too mad with grief to be help himself. He wouldn't back down to the Ministry again. Every part of him that was stubborn, every bullheaded bit of his personality (and that brought back memories of McGonagall; she must be so disappointed) was resisting the pull of despair. But it was so hard; no memory was pure and happy, not so close to the Dementors. And with every pass of one by his cell, he felt worse and worse.

There had to be a solution, but Sirius couldn't think of it quite yet; if only he had his wand!

* * *

The forest grew less and less every day, and stumps were scattered across the land. It would have been better, perhaps, if there had been desolation all around, so that the healthy fields would not cast the stumps in such stark relief.

The farmer chopped wood every evening in the autumn after he had finished all the harvesting that he could before it got too dark. He worked every day until late, trying to build a stock for the winter. It became easy after he got the hang of it. A little muscle is all it takes: an unhinging of the shoulder, bringing it back, and then letting the momentum carry him forward. He did this even when the mosquitoes came and poked and bit at him in a million little stab wounds, sweat dripping down and stinging. His muscles burned, but he continued until the sun had sunk completely below the fields, the memory of his child's voice rising with the moon, beckoning him home.

He rolled his shoulders as he walked, the ache of fatigue brushed away by the tantalizing smell of food on the wind. But it was oddly quiet in the dark house, silence roaring in his ears. And then. A child lying on the floor. The baby, sleeping in a pool of thick black water – because that must be sleep and that must be water. He moved on down the hall, gripping the forgotten axe in one hand and jacket in the other, the zipper making an impression on the palm.

He passed his wife, but couldn't look. There was a man, ravaging the dresser, rifling through the clothes. A thief. So. A little muscle was all it took: an unhinging of the shoulder, bringing it back, and then letting the momentum carry you forward.

Then Sirius woke up, muscles in his back jerking. He had nothing to defend, nothing to avenge. And he didn't have his wand anyway, or even an axe. He spent the rest of the day as Padfoot.

* * *

_He was a dead man walking, real smooth talkin'._ A Muggle singer played on the radio in Lily's house. Sirius sat at the table, shifting uncomfortably. Lily had invited the four of them down to her parent's house for New Years, and they had all accepted eagerly. Lily's parents were really nice people, he knew; they had first met at the train station two years ago, when all the Gryffindors of their year had gotten off the train together. They had been so afraid of the Slytherins then, but they had no idea what a threat Voldemort would become later.

Knowing Lily's parents, Sirius had been expecting a warm, merry New Years complete with hot sister to flirt with and a little partying with good friends. Petunia wasn't quite what he had anticipated, but neither was the vacation. Lily and James had spent most of the last weekend cloistered together in her bedroom or cooing over each other, Peter had been acting strangely ever since that owl from his mother had arrived, and Moony was coming down with a cold. Damn.

So here he and Petunia sat, awkwardly looking at the kitchen table and not each other, listening to the radio. The plastic tablecloth was white with a red checkered pattern, and Sirius traced the lines with his fingertip, feeling the ruts where knives had scraped the surface and where something, maybe grape juice or wine, had spilled and stained the white purple. _He was a dead man walking, a blade blunted down to the bone. _Sirius knew she was attracted to him, could tell by the way she wasn't sneering at him like she had at his friends. Lots of women were attracted to him though; it wasn't a bad deal, but he wasn't interested in a cow like Petunia.

They sat there for a while. He was starting to be amused by her nervous fidgeting. Her hands clenched and unclenched around the edge of the tablecloth, and he knew she was going to break the silence right about - "Sirius? Do you, er, like the music? Or should I change it? Because I could always change it? Unless you like Billie Holiday, that is. I think it's Billie Holiday." Called it in one, Sirius thought with no small satisfaction. He amazed himself sometimes.

"No Petunia, I think the music's fine. Keep it on." _He was a jet black man, and without him the streets are colder. Yesterday will always linger. _Whoever it was, the voice was melancholy and smooth, and rich in a way such a damaged voice shouldn't be. Petunia's timidly hopeful expression was no longer all that funny, so Sirius got up. He had never been deliberately cruel to anyone but Snape. "I'm gonna go outside and smoke. Don't let them eat without me, eh?" With that he walked out, wishing for some robes to cover his tight jeans. They made his ass look hot and there was no point in tormenting the poor thing.

* * *

The only reason it occurred to Sirius to change into Padfoot was that the Dementors had all gathered near a far-away cell, where there had been an attempted break out. Sirius could hear screaming, and all he wanted to do was know what was going on. Changing into Padfoot, he tried to use his superior hearing and smell to get a good impression, but all he heard was intensifying screaming and then silence. There wasn't even any blood. The Dementors didn't ever smell like anything.

But through the sudden fearful silence throughout the prison, away from their stifling presence, Sirius realized something; he didn't feel as sad. Dogs simply weren't equipped for the kind of despair that humans were capable of, and lived in the moment. If he could let go of the past, there would be less rotten, less spoiled, less to grieve. This was the birth of Sirius' hope.

There are things Sirius doesn't let himself think about, at least when he can help it:

His mother and father and their varied arguments.

McGonagall, who he had always actually liked, deep down. Dumbledore and Hagrid.

How long has he been in here? (He thinks it might have been five years, but really it's more like one).

The boy who lived.

Moony and what he must think.

James and Lily.

* * *

Padfoot thought about the Rat, and imagined its flesh squeezing between his teeth, bones crunching and joints popping. When he ate his food, he tore at it like it was the Rat. He tore at it like it was a snake. He tore into it and it sunk down his throat.

When it was the real thing Padfoot wanted it to wriggle down the whole way.


	3. Chapter 3: Dudley

**Chapter 3 - Everything Dies**

The funeral parlor was small and cramped. His father had liked big things, so Dudley had helped his mother pick the largest and roomiest coffin there. Mummy muttered over the price, but Dudley pleaded with her and she got his choice; it worked every time, but it was especially important today.

His mother was in black, and so was Dudley. Stupid Harry was standing next to her, thin and short, in dark grey. They all moved over to the register, mum signing another paper, and then they moved outside. The funeral was in three days, the wake was tomorrow. Dudley felt tears welling up yet again, and suppressed them ruthlessly. He was so bloody sick of blubbering like a baby. After she was done, Mum led them away, a hand on each of their backs.

It was a horrible day for a funeral, to be honest. It had rained last night, and was really windy. Whenever a really large gust of wind blew, wet muddy water flicked onto all the funeral guests. They were all gathered in a cluster around the grave, great big hole in the ground and a huge white angel. Dudley thought the angel looked a big like a pouf, but his protests had been ignored.

Harry stood next to Dudley, right by the graveside like the rest of the family. He was such a stupid brat, but he was their cousin. Dad had never really liked him, but mum had always encouraged being nice to him. Father had encouraged a lot of things, including driving really big cars and being a big man. And now he was dead. Dudley wasn't supposed to know, but his father had died tripping over a chair and falling down some stairs. Not the best death; Dudley had a vague sort of idea that his father would have liked something more dramatic or dignified better.

Something in which Harry hadn't been the one to see him die and hear his last words. Dudley almost hated Harry for that, for seeing his father at the last, when he _knew_ his father had loved him more, had always hated Harry. Secretly though, Dudley was glad all the way down to his toes that he hadn't had to see it, to hear his father's last breath.

Harry didn't look too happy about everything either, even though Father had been his worst enemy in the entire world. His face looked really pale in the old suit mum had bought from the junk store, but it fit him perfectly, and for the first time Dudley could see how thin he really was. With a strange surge of fellow-feeling, Dudley reached out and held Harry's hand.

When the coffin lowered, Dudley started crying, great big tears. Harry's hand tightened around his, and they said goodbye to the only father figure they could remember. The two boys stood there, mum in front of them, her hand quick and jerky as she tossed the dirt into the grave.

The small family watched as people came up one by one to pay their respects. Most of them Dudley didn't recognize or care about, but there were three particularly striking people in line, stark and elegant. The man had a cane, but didn't walk like he needed it; it was like he was an old movie villain, one of those with the sword hidden up the walking stick. There was a small boy that looked about their age, 10 or 11 at the most. He was pretty for a boy, and wore a sneer that matched his father's. And lastly... what must have been the mother. She was leaning down over the foot of the grave, her soft blond hair spilling over her shoulders. She laid a flower at the foot of his grave, and then walked back to her family.

They stopped briefly in front of the Dudley, all of them almost glowing in the gloom. The man spoke to his mother, that sneer still on his face. _Does he even know he's doing it?_ Dudley wondered. "Mrs. Dursley, our condolences." Looking at Dudley, he nodded once, shortly.

"Thank you. Did you know Vernon from work?" mother asked, her eyes slightly wide. The man could have been Father's boss, Dudley supposed.

"Unfortunately, we are cousins. We always give relatives our respects in the end, even if they were born flawed and ungifted, as your father was. His mother refused to cull him, and now here we are. Goodbye." The last was said to his mom, her face white. Dudley couldn't tell for sure, but he thought she was angry, her lips pressed down tightly like when she was about to yell at him or Harry. Dudley understood, then: these people, strange and beautiful, were attacking them with words.

The man was about to turn away, his entire stance one of scorn, but his gaze caught when it reached Harry. "Why, Mr. Potter. You knew this man?" At Harry's surprised nod, the man's entire posture changed. "My condolences to you as well."

As if on cue, the woman stepped forward and handed him a flower, which he in turn handed to Harry. "Remember, the Malfoys are always proper, even towards a cousin such as this. This is my son, Draco, and my wife, Narcissa."

The boy nodded, the scorn gone. His eyes flickered to look briefly at Harry's scar. When the blond boy glanced at Dudley, Dudley could almost feel the push backwards. Disgust, that's what that look was. The boy turned back towards Harry again, and nodded shortly, just like his father, with a really queer expression on his face. Stupid prick. Why should he like Harry better?

Mother was looking more and more furious the entire time these strange people talked to Harry, until finally she stepped forward, shoving Dudley and Harry protectively behind her. "I don't know who you people think you are! Even if you are some of _that_ kind, you will leave this place! If you want to be decent family to him now that he's dead, you'll just leave! Go on, we don't need your scorn." She gulped in air, then relaxed once they stepped away.

With an arched eyebrow, the woman walked away, taking the boy's – Draco's – hand. With a final nod to Harry, the man turned around and they left together. The rest of the funeral was calm, but it had been ruined. Dudley felt awful the rest of the day, and Mother's fingers were clenched claws behind her purse.


	4. Chapter 4: Sally

**Chapter 4 - Sally**

Sally was a small, unimposing girl in class 1b. Currently, she was hiding from Dudley and his friends. Dudley wanted her lunch money, and she simply wasn't going to give it. Sally might not have looked intimidating or beautiful, but she was determined. Her first year had so far been an entire two months of refusing to cave in to bullies, prettier girls, and teachers who didn't want her to play outside because it was unladylike. The pretty girls and the teachers were easy enough to ignore, but Dudley and his gang was a problem she had yet to solve.

The best hiding place, she had found, was the stall on the far end of the girl's bathroom. The boys were afraid of the girl's bathroom, so when they even dared to go in, they didn't dare to come in too far, or search too many stalls. About half her lunch period was usually spent here, or underneath the side stairs, which was more comfortable, but riskier.

Finally, with her legs cramping so bad she was going to ache even later tonight, she climbed down off the toilet seat. There had to be a more comfortable way to sit here for fifteen minutes without crouching, feet balanced carefully on the toilet bowl, but Sally had yet to find it.

Slipping out into the narrow hall, Sally carefully checked out both sides before finally walking quickly towards the cafeteria. If she could make it there without bumping into those goons – Damn!

She found herself sprawled on the ground, and expected any minute to hear his piggy little voice, but when she looked up she only saw green eyes behind round owl-like frames. It was Harry Potter, who was friendly with Dudley in some way, but not part of his gang. Not popular at all, in fact. She relaxed quickly. That probably meant, had to mean, that she was safe with him.

Two years older than her, Harry was known as something of a loner. He wasn't too tall or too short, but really thin, with clothes that were always worn and a little ragged at the edges. He also had a reputation for standing up to Dudley occasionally, even though no one else would even dream of it.

She pushed herself up off the ground, tugging her uniform skirt down over knees. Harry got up too, nodding at her cautiously. "How come you're not eating?" he asked.

"How come you're not?" she replied defiantly.

"Went to the bathroom." He paused for a minute, then added, "And you look like you're out here because of Dudley. I saw him talking to you yesterday."

Sally followed him down the hall towards the cafeteria, somewhat dismayed that she was so obviously a victim. At least it was only to Harry, who seemed pretty inoffensive. "Yeah. I hadn't thought anyone noticed that. How do you deal with him?"

Harry grinned at her. "It's a secret. I'll tell you what though, he doesn't do too well against the direct approach. You're small, but there are still parts of him you can reach."

"Huh?"

"Just kick his shins, and he'll just yelp and scamper away." He snorted. "Dudley really is a horrible wimp when it comes to pain."

Sally looked at Harry skeptically. Harry looked so aggressive when he said that. "Did he used to pick on you?"

"Yeah, when we were very little." He absently stared off down the hall for a second. "We got over it though. Couldn't help it. Now we get along, and pretend we don't know each other when we're at school." He made a strange little gesture, a kind of shrug with a twist of his hips thrown in. It looked pretty awkward now, but she could tell it was a motion that would look more natural when she got older. His mannerisms were more like those of a hero in one of the books she read than a ten-year-old. "I dunno, he continued, "it's not like our images at school would accommodate a friendship. And I hated bullies when I was younger and I hate it now."

Harry and Dudley had known each other when they were little? And now he was standing up to Dudley for others. When Harry leaned forward, his hair lifted off his forehead a little and she could see the scar on his forehead. It was shaped like a lightning bolt.

Again, she couldn't help but think of a storybook hero. He had the strong and honorable thing going on, with the scar and the mannerisms and the scruffy air. She could see him as a lone knight, riding in the woods looking for things to rescue. She didn't know it, but this day was the beginning of a crush that endured until she was 15, many years after he left for that reformatory school. (She had her doubts about that though, because she would hear at least three different kinds of schools/institutions circulating in school gossip.)

Abruptly, they reached the cafeteria doors. He turned away to the older kids' tables, where his tray was probably sitting. Sally got into line, and checked, but he didn't glance at her again.

Later that day, Sally kicked Dudley as hard as she could, and ran away to the nearby library. He didn't bother her ever again, but even after she had long forgotten Dudley the image of Harry as a knight wouldn't leave her head.


	5. Chapter 5: Harry

**Chapter 5 - Snakes and Letters**

Harry got up that morning with a strange sense of foreboding. The sun filtered through his window just like usual, a soft pink through his curtains. He blinked, and reached over for his glasses. Nothing looked out of place. His dirty clothes were piled up by the door, his music posters hanging on his wall, his dresser cluttered with crap. Even so, as he buttoned up his shirt that morning, everything felt funny. Just... funny.

Sitting down at the breakfast table, Harry poured himself some cereal, avoiding the sight of Dudley's daily traditional English breakfast. If only he didn't chew with his mouth open, it wouldn't be so disgusting. Aunt Petunia was moving around the kitchen, waving a spatula around and chattering on about the school committee she wanted to join. Puttering around, she wordlessly put some bacon on Harry's plate before getting a huge amount of food for herself.

Sunday mornings were like that, Harry mused. Even in the summer, things were tightly wound in the Dursley household; you could only step in certain places, and eat certain things, exchange certain affections. Harry thought that his Aunt loved him, but the only time he had any proof was on Sundays. One time, she had even relaxed enough to absently stroke his hair.

Sunday was also the day they all went out for a walk in the park (at Petunia's insistence of course, because neither Harry or Dudley really wanted to be seen with each other in public). Despite their reluctance, however, Harry had to admit that he enjoyed the ice cream and the fresh air. They didn't have ice cream too often, along with certain other luxuries.

They had less to live on after Uncle Vernon had died, even though Petunia worked six days a week, while Harry and Dudley did odd jobs around the neighborhood. On Sunday though, nobody worked, and nobody did any homework either. Dudley sat around and watched tv, while Harry usually drew and read and gardened. Anything to get him out of the house and away from the tv, which Dudley watched with a vacant expression that creeped Harry out too much to watch anything with him.

Today Harry went out to the garden, to get some roses for the kitchen. He knew it was slightly girly, along with the drawing, but he had actually won prize money from one of his sketches, so he figured a little girly was alright. He enjoyed being outside; if anyone had a problem with it... well, that was just too bad. He was in the process of watering the plants when he looked over by his right ankle and almost jumped out of his skin.

Right there, right next to his trainer, was a small green snake. Distantly, he recognized that it was a simple garter snake, small and green-brown and just like every other snake in existence, but when he looked at it he felt strange, just like he had felt this morning. Like things weren't wrong, they were just off. Like the earth had shifted just a little, but not in a bad way.

It was like the feeling he had had when at the zoo for Dudley's birthday. He had made eye contact with the boa constrictor for a second, staring into its hard, black eyes until he realized there was a strange song playing in the background; it had almost been like someone was humming. That was what looking at this snake was like.

He kneeled down, though it struck him it was rather stupid to put your face near a _snake_, even if it was just a little one. The snake lifted itself up, so their eyes were only a short distance apart. Then the snake said "I like the plants."

Harry swallowed, too surprised to do anything else. "What?" he asked stupidly.

"The plants," the snake said, or maybe hissed, since Harry could now hear a strange vibrato on every word. "I like them. I like what you've done with the place."

"Thanks," Harry managed. What did one say to a snake? "How are you talking to me right now?"

"I talking to you? You're the one who's talking snake, boy. Didn't you know?" The snake looked as puzzled as a snake could look, and moved its head slightly to the left. "By the way, you should plant more tulips. They attract the best bugs."

"Do they," Harry said faintly.

The snake shifted uncomfortably. "Look, before we talk any further, it just isn't polite to have a conversation without exchanging names. That's a bit of snake etiquette, for future reference; it's just rude otherwise, don't you know. I'm Edward, of the gardenias beyond the fence. I think you all call it Oxford Lane."

"Ah? Nice house, that. I'm, uh, Harry Potter. Of Privet Drive," he said, gesturing vaguely to the house behind him. "Pleased to meet you." He almost held out his hand to shake, but caught himself.

"Harry Potter? Really? Well, this _is _an event." The snake's tongue flickered out, and its head bobbed, which Harry's mind somehow interpreted as a low bow. "I'm happy to have met you before you leave. Yes, you're definitely going, no way you're not in demand there."

"Going? I'm not going anywhere, am I?"

"Hm. Well, you are talking to a snake. Let's just say I think you're going somewhere soon. Somewhere magical," the snake added with the air of someone being helpful.

Bloody mysterious is more like, Harry thought. Magical. Or was he just going completely bonkers and this was the latest sign? It felt real enough, his knees sinking down into the grass. "So... does me talking to you have to do with magic?"

"Seems like it. Just about the only way possible, to me. Pretty rare magical ability, a human able to talk to snakes. I've never been outside of England though, so what do I know? I will give you one piece of advice though, one English being to another: think Slytherin. It's even got an 'S,' like ssssssnake. Ssssslytherin. That's how you can remember. This talent of yours would come in handy there."

"What? Look, can you stop being mysterious for a second? What's all this about magic? Is Slytherin some kind of secret magical sect or something?" Normally Harry would have dismissed an idea like that as ridiculous, but talking to a snake had abruptly readjusted many of his limits.

"Sorry, said all I should. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise. Good luck though, wherever you end up." With that, the little snake slithered away into the bushes.

"Right. Er, I'll be sure to remember about the tulips!" he called out to Edward. When he didn't hear any more rustling, he sat back on his heels, dizzy. "Well, that was weird." And after that he was too restless to keep gardening, and went inside to read comics.

Later that week, Harry sat up on his bed, setting aside his book. The air seemed charged, and he could hear Aunt Petunia's voice rising downstairs. Walking down, he could just make out her saying to herself " - do they know? How could they know where he sleeps?"

On seeing him by the staircase, Aunt Petunia straightened up, holding a letter tightly in her hand. Harry had never seen such a queer expression on her face. "Harry, go upstairs," she said, her voice shaking. "Lock your door, and close the windows tight." She smiled at him, and crumpled the letter up in her hand. And with that she started moving, locking up windows and doors, closing the chimney, eyes darting around. When she saw that he was just standing there, staring, she shouted "Hurry up!"

He rushed to obey, but with the feeling building up in his stomach again, the same feeling he had been having for the past couple days, just before anything weird happened, like his hair growing back overnight. He knew that, whatever that letter was, it wasn't going to be stopped by normal locks. It was magic. Looking out his window, he saw a letter, fluttering in front of him, battering against the glass. Just when he was about to reach for it, Petunia rushed in and closed the curtains.

_It won't work,_ he thought. _Nothing will_. It was strangely exhilarating. He thought of the snake, and how he was 'in demand.' It was a strange concept, that he was wanted somewhere. Everywhere, in school and even in his own home, he was something of an outsider. But now, he could talk to snakes!

Aunt Petunia walked up to Harry, armed with a bag of food in one hand and a packet of paper - were those letters? - clenched in the other. Her face actually had color for once, high bright spots in her cheeks. She hurriedly bustled Harry and Dudley down the stairs into the cellar, and closed the door tightly behind them.

"Mother, what are you doing?" Dudley whined, voice shrill in the dim light. "This place is dirty!"

The cellar was small and dusty, with patterns of mold sprawled on the floor. All of Dudley's old toys were stacked in one corner, all of them broken. Aunt Petunia wiped off an old wooden stool and sat on it heavily. "Dudley, sweetie, just sit down. Harry, you too." She sighed as they got down two more stools, boosting themselves up onto the seats awkwardly. "We're just going to stay here for a while," she continued. "It shouldn't be long." Harry thought that last bit had been added a bit dubiously.

They must have sat there for a few hours, Dudley propped against the wall and snoring while Harry drew with the remnants of one of Dudley's art sets. The aquamarine blue was just about to run out when something occurred to Harry, who didn't have many celebrations centered on him. "But Aunt Petunia, it's my birthday tomorrow. We're not going to be here that long, are we?"

Aunt Petunia opened her mouth to reply, when suddenly there was a slithering sound above their heads. No, more like a dry rustling sound, Harry decided. Like snake skin. Or paper! He watched raptly as a letter started to wiggle in beneath the door, envelope tearing a little. His aunt rushed up the steps and snatched it up, but then another was in, and another and another.

Upstairs, the clock struck twelve, and a knock could be heard on the door. And then footsteps traveled across the door towards the cellar, as a deep, gruff voice called out "'Arry? Harry, are yeh here?"

Harry could hear the man walking towards the cellar door, and saw out of the corner of his eye Dudley sniffling a little, eyes wide with terror. Two massive feet blocked the light filtering under the door, and then the door bounced open, thrown back by one knock. The man was... huge, with fists the size of hams. Harry could barely see his face, shadowed by the light, but what he could see of it was blunt and friendly.

At the sight of him, Aunt Petunia seemed to wilt, dropping the remnants of paper and letters. She was dwarfed by the giant and he easily wedged past her on the stairs, a smile lighting his face as he looked at Harry. He was carrying a bright pink umbrella and a crisp, fresh letter with Harry's name on it, faint in the dim light. "Hallo Harry!" he boomed. "I've got your letter." And Harry took it.


	6. Chapter 6: Draco

_Slytherin. Slytherin. Slytherin. I'm not afraid of inflicting pain on a hat, you know. Actually that was quite a Slytherin thing to say, just then. I'm perfect, you know it._

"Slytherin!"

Draco grinned widely before quickly hiding the expression and replacing it with a superior sneer. His new House looked at him with varying degrees of welcome, and he sat down safe and secure in the knowledge that his place for the next seven years was assured – if he could only reach out and grab it.

Pansy smiled happily at him for a moment, before turning back to her new friend, Millicent Bulstrode, some girl she had met on the train, no doubt. Privately, he suspected she was a half-breed, but better a Slytherin half-breed than any other kind. Crabbe and Goyle were near him during the feast, both giving him nods of open support, though to his dismay, the Bloody Baron was also sitting near him. Draco glanced at the blood on his robes and the ghastly expression on the ghost's face out of the corner of his eye, and tried not to recoil too much. He didn't, after all, want to appear like a pansy in front of his new house. He gamely took a huge bite of pudding, trying not to feel nauseous.

Everyone stuffed themselves silly that feast, and Draco exerted himself in conversation as much as was possible, being near the edge of the damned table. Everybody laughed themselves sick, as least, when Draco recounted their first meeting in the robe shop – "Imagine, Potter didn't even know whether he was pureblood or not!"

Half the time Draco tried to talk though, he was interrupted by the older students, who clearly outranked him. It rankled a bit, but Draco knew it was to be expected. For now, at least. Feeling slightly discouraged, slightly exhilarated by the challenges in front of him, he went back to the common room with the rest of the first years, taking the chance to make himself known to everyone who didn't already know exactly who his father was.

Lying in his bed that night, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle on either side, he was far too excited to go to sleep. Sneaking out of his bed, he headed out to the common room, admiring the heavy green velvet draped over the stones. Elegant and effective at keeping out cold. He approved. The entire common room, in fact, was a mass of luxurious fabrics and sleek design. Anti-mold and anti-dark magic charms probably encircled the room, a display of power that Draco knew he shouldn't be surprised at.

The fire was still going, and all around the fire were chairs, filled at intervals with older students, almost all of them hunched down over desks, though a few people were just talking. Coming closer, he could see that the desks held drugs: some stims, some aphrodisiacs. A few of the groups were doing some more exotic things. Was that dried Phoenix blood? Ah yes, Father had warned him about this: common beer for Gryffindors, performance-enhancers for Ravenclaws, nothing for the ever-so-honest Hufflepuffs, and for the Slytherins... the fun stuff.

Looking up, a sixth-year cousin of his waved him over with a dulled smile. Ground will-o-the-wisp, perhaps? Draco came closer, and saw the people's dilated pupils and restlessness. Yes, definitely. With everyone looking on, judging him, Draco reached down and picked up a fingerful as he had seen the others doing, and rubbed it over his eyelids. He felt a social pressure; his performance tonight would be the basis for the rest of the year.

With a deep breath, he could feel the drug start to work, spreading warmth from his neck down, tingling a bit. There, he hadn't embarrassed himself with any childish lack of knowledge. Everybody did another round, the older ones rubbing in more and more risqué places. When some of the girls started moving against each other, Draco had to sit down, flushed and thrumming.

His cousin waved at him in dismissal, but not a mocking one. He stood up and started tottering away, just as happy to get out of something he knew he wasn't ready for. "No more playing at the big kid's party, Draco," one seventh-year said, her lips swollen and smiling. A few people he knew from family parties nodded at him as he left, and he felt a rush of pride.

When Draco lay down in his bed again, he shifted restlessly, not knowing what to do. Sweat started running down his face, and he felt like little bugs were skittering up and down his arms underneath his robes. Really, this, this wasn't as pleasant as he had imagined. Draco caught himself scratching at his arms and stopped immediately; his great-uncle had scars up one arm from doing that. Feeling worse and worse, but not knowing what to do about it, Draco finally got out his wand and spelled himself unconscious.

* * *

Draco woke up with aching shivers running up and down his body and with a muddled head. The first day of classes was important; he needed to tackle it with clarity. Right then. Just as soon as he had something to eat. After staring at the canopy over his bed for another five minutes or so, he woke Crabbe and Goyle up so they could back him up. The other Slytherin first-years started moving too, everyone looking like they were nervous but trying to hide it. Fortunately, Draco felt too sick from his hangover to be nervous.

Class turned out to be a moderately dull affair. History of Magic was perhaps the least engaging class Draco had ever encountered. He amused himself by flicking things at the Hufflepuffs, who winced and shot him the most hilarious timid scowls. Crabbe and Goyle backed him by laughing at all his jokes, and Pansy was looking at him admiringly by the end of class.

But on Friday, there was Potions with the Gryffindors. Draco didn't know how Professor Snape stopped himself from expelling them all, or at least making them drink their own potions. In terms of subject matter, Potions was the most interesting of all the classes yet; it gratified Draco that he was finally able to follow a simple set of instructions, and the ingredients would do exactly what they told him too. It was all the more gratifying that the Gryffindor louts were too hung-over or stupid to do the simplest of potions correctly.

The best part of class, however, had to be the way Professor Snape praised his godson Draco and completely smashed Potter. Poor ickle Harry, scolded for not knowing something he was already supposed to have studied. Draco didn't know what the product of infusion of asphodel and powered root of asphodel were either, or whatever it was Professor Snape had asked about, but that was where it paid to have family connections.

Longbottom, however, provided the highlight of Draco's week when his cauldron exploded, which Professor Snape somehow cleverly used to make Potter lose even more points. They were like a troupe of clowns just waiting to entertain Draco!

Draco looked forward to even more hilarity during the flying lesson. Neville was disgustingly bad on a broom. "How has he even lived this long?" asked Draco in mock-wonderment. All the other Slytherins snickered, and Pansy looked admiringly at him for what must have been the fourth time that day. It really was like the Gryffindors tried to help him.

Potter gave him a look as Hooch led Longbottom away, clutching his arm and snot running all down his face. When Draco sneered back at him, Potter just stared back expressionlessly.

Draco couldn't help but think of on the train, when Potter had just looked at his outstretched hand. As though it wasn't even real. Had muttered off something like "I'd rather not." Bugger him. Just... he's not important. But he had been and was still unavoidably important; he was a hero, and he had rejected Draco. In public, out of hand, as though he hadn't been worth the effort. Even now, he just looked out Draco with a look of, was that _amusement_? As though Draco were some familiar little puppy, come to play _games_.

He moved with a self-assuredness that Draco longed for suddenly, with a stab of envy. To go through life without any doubts, status given for something he did as a _baby, _it probably hadn't even really been because of anything little baby Potter had done, he had just happened to be there, but still _anything_ the prat wanted was at his fingertips... In a sudden burst of genius, Draco grabbed Neville's Rememberall and hurtled up into the air. Come on, Potter, just try to get it back and act the hero. You don't even know how to fly, Potter, let's see you break your arm too.

Potter leaped onto his broom and flew up to Draco, catching up quickly. He faced Draco, face lit up and flushed, his height no longer an issue for him. "Neither of your thugs up here!" he shouted. Suddenly afraid, Draco held out his hand with some of his former bravado, and opened it, keeping his eyes on Potter. Draco's eager grin turned blank when Potter caught it. Just before it hit the ground. In a _Wronski feint_ move, something Draco had broken a leg trying to learn. And Potter had never been on a broom before.

Draco saw McGonagall rushing up quickly, and flew back down, shaking off his shock. Damn him! As Draco watched McGonagall lead Potter off to a probably-not-that-horrible punishment, because he was _The Boy Who Lived_, he felt a black emotion pooling in his heart, hot and cold at the same time. Oh right - that was hate. He hated Potter more than he had ever hated anyone, and Draco didn't think he could ever _hate_ anyone this much again. It wasn't even that Potter was a prat – it was that he just didn't care. About Draco, who deserved everyone's praise and adulation. As though Draco was just like a little foolish puppy. One who _yapped_ with one of those silly tiny barks. Draco was not annoying, he should be a nemesis at least. Just... bugger him. _Potter_. Even when all the Slytherins patted him on the back and cheered as Potter disappeared into the school, that was all he could think.


End file.
